


i owe you one

by vivelapluto



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, basically they're both disaster gays, fake dating au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 02:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18240728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivelapluto/pseuds/vivelapluto
Summary: the blurred line between pretense and reality, or grantaire, who told one too many stories to his family about his (nonexistant) boyfriend, and enjolras, who happens to owe him a favor and is free friday night





	i owe you one

“I can’t wait to meet your new boyfriend, Rene,” his mother says over the phone. “You’ve told us so much about him!”

_ Fuck.  _

Fuck everything. Fuck it all to pieces.

“Of course, Mom! He’s super excited to meet you all too!” Grantaire’s voice almost cracks, but somehow, he manages to keep it casual.

Until his mother hangs up on the other line and he hurls his phone at the bed in frustration. It misses the mattress, bouncing off the headboard with a resounding c _ rack  _ before landing on the floor.

Of course, the top corner of the screen is now shattered.

Heaving a sigh, Grantaire picks up the phone. The date and time flickering across the now-broken screen is foreboding. He has five days until Friday. Five days until he’s expected to go home and have dinner with his family and his new date he’s told them all so much about.

He has five days to find a boyfriend.

* * *

 

“You did this to yourself, R,” Eponine says, legs dangling off the fence. They’re sitting on the cedar wood that lines the courtyard, staring at the horizon as the sun sets. 

“You’re not supposed to say that, Ep. You’re  _ supposed  _ to offer to dress up as a boy and pretend to be my date, or call my parents and get me out of this mess.”

Eponine swats his arm. “ _ No.  _ If you want, I can push you off the fence so you break your leg.”

Grantaire considers this. “But then they’d probably come to the hospital to visit.” 

Eponine shrugs. “Why don’t you just ask someone? Bahorel or something?”

Grantaire snorts. “ _ Bahorel?  _ The boy can’t act, Eponine. He’s sure to accidentally call me Feuilly or something.” 

“You’re right,” Eponine replies. She tips her head back to look at the sky. “What about . . . .” she draws it out. “A certain someone whom you never shut up about, a certain someone who honestly, you could probably make out to be a very convincing boyfriend . . .“

“Enjolras?” Grantaire says, shaking his head. “God, he hates me, Ep.  _ Hates  _ me.”

“Please. He doesn’t  _ hate  _ you. I think you should ask him.” 

“That is one of the dumbest things you’ve ever said.”

“Rene, I  _ will  _ push you off this fence, broken-leg-decoy-plan or not.” 

Grantaire sighs. “How would I even ask him? ‘Hey Enj, you owe me for that one time forever ago so’—” He cuts himself off. “Wait. Eponine. Do you remember when he was out of PoliSci for like, a week? Because something happened at one of those rallies he’s always going to and he was in the hospital and—”

“—And like the lovesick fool that you are, you jumped at the chance to  _ take lecture notes for him,”  _ Eponine finishes. “Yes, I do. Because you constantly asked me whether your handwriting was neat enough, or ‘too gay’, or whatever.”

“But Ep! Do you know what he said?” Grantaire asks. He’s hopped off the fence, and is pacing back and forth, seemingly in deep thought.

“That your cursive is, in fact, ‘too gay’.” 

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “No. He said— _ I owe you one _ .”

* * *

 

Grantaire hopes he’s not too terribly obvious in PoliSci the next day, but Enjolras has to have done something different to his hair, because . . .

“Is there a reason you’re staring at me?” 

_ Fuck. _

“Enjolras! Hey, dude, what’s up?” Grantaire replies, leaning his chair on its back legs. He nearly falls over as it slides back, metal scraping against the linoleum floor with a terrible sound. 

Enjolras winces.

“I. Uh. Do-you-remember-when-you-said-you-owed-me-one-well-I-need-you-to-pretend-to-be-my-boyfriend.” He says it all in one breath; it’s easier that way.

“Sorry, what? Your  _ boyfriend?”  _ Enjolras blinks, and if Grantaire’s not mistaken, his cheeks go slightly pink. 

“I just. May or may not have told my family that I was dating someone. But. . . I’m not. And there’s a dinner this Friday—?”

“And you’d like me to be there. As your date,” Enjolras finishes. 

Grantaire laughs, far too loudly. “Exactly! I’m so glad you understand! So um, I’ll pick you up on Friday? Seven?”

“I never said  _ yes—“ _

But Grantaire’s already left the classroom.

* * *

 

It’s Friday night, and of course, Enjolras has no plans.  _ As usual,  _ singsongs the little voice in his head.

He sits on the floor of his dorm room, blowing a stray curl out of his face and bouncing a tennis ball against the wall, the steady  _ thud  _ of it drowning out everything else. 

Everything except a knock at the door.

Enjolras frowns; he doesn’t usually have visitors. Unless it’s Combeferre asking to borrow a textbook, but he usually texts first. Standing up, Enjolras peers through the peephole.

It’s . . .  _ Grantaire.  _ From PoliSci. 

He’s wearing a slightly wrinkled button-down and for once, his mess of curls is actually combed out (some small part of Enjolras registers that it looks very nice), and his hands are shaking slightly as he raises them to knock again. 

Enjolras opens the door, trying his best to look casual as he leans against it.

His foot slips on the doorstop and he falls into the frame. 

“You good?” Grantaire asks. He’s got a sort of nervous energy to him that Enjolras can’t seem to decipher. 

Enjolras simply nods before cutting to the chase. “Is there a reason you’re at my dorm at seven o’clock on a Friday?” he asks, though as soon as he speaks he remembers.

_ ‘I’ll pick you up on Friday? Seven?’ _

He sucks in a deep breath. “Is this your fake boyfriend scheme?”

Grantaire nods. “Uh. Yeah.” He clears his throat, looking down at his feet. “So. We should probably go, the Uber’s here—”

Enjolras is hesitant as he steps forward, closing the door behind him. Almost as an afterthought, he takes Grantaire’s hand in his own.

“What are you doing?” Grantaire asks, eyebrows lifting.

“We’re supposed to be a . . .a couple, right?” Enjolras replies hesitantly. He takes his hand back, stuffing it into his jacket pocket. “Sorry.”

“I mean,” Grantaire’s face is a brilliant shade of crimson; Enjolras can’t help but notice how it brings out the hazel in his eyes. “Yeah, but only once we get there, it’s just for the family.”

Enjolras internally kicks himself. “Oh. Right.” 

As they walk, he’s careful to keep a decent amount of distance between him and Grantaire, and there’s a middle seat between them as they sit in the Uber, both staring out of their respective windows.

The silence is almost unbearable. A few long, long minutes later, Enjolras breaks it. “So. Is there anything I should know, going into this?” 

“What?” Grantaire replies. “No, just that you’re uh, my boyfriend. And we’ve been dating for like, a few months, so . . .”

Enjolras nods. “Okay. Cool.”

“Thanks again for agreeing to do this,” Grantaire says.

_ I never agreed.  _ “Um. You’re welcome. I really don’t mind.” And surprisingly (most of all to himself), Enjolras’s words are true.

He doesn’t mind pretending to date Grantaire.

Not at all.

* * *

 

The door swings open and Grantaire’s mother pulls Enjolras into a hug. “Oh, R’s told me so much about you!”  

Enjolras is slightly taken aback, but he manages a smile. “Has he?” he says, casting a pointed glance in Grantaire’s direction. 

His mother nods. “Yes, he says you’re an activist? He told me about that one rally last month . . .”

Enjolras’s eyebrows fly up. How did ‘Taire tell her all of this when he didn’t even ask Enjolras to do this for him until a week ago? Unless—

Enjolras feels his face heat up at this thought.

Unless R had been describing Enjolras as his boyfriend far before he’d asked, which meant—

He practically collapses into his chair at the dining table. 

“Rene,” he says, wincing at how breathless his voice sounds. “Can you, uh, show me where the bathroom is?”

Grantaire, oblivious as ever, points down the hall. “It’s just over there.”

Thoughtful as he was, apparently he couldn’t take a hint.

Enjolras clears his throat. “Can you walk me there? I don’t want to . . .” he trails off, his look so pointed he’s practically glaring.

“Oh,” Grantaire says. “Oh, sure.”

And then before Enjolras can even process it they’re holding hands again as Grantaire walks (or practically drags him, really) down the hall. “What’s wrong?” he whispers.

_ Nothing.  _ Honestly, nothing is wrong.

Enjolras is just doing everything he can to keep from smiling like an idiot and making a complete fool of himself. 

“I just, um, did you tell them about me? Before you asked me to do this? Because they know. . .”

“Fuck. I’m sorry, Enjolras. Wait. . . why do you look so happy?”

_ Shit. _

“Are you okay? You didn’t like, get drunk before you came or anything, did you?”

Enjolras’s tone is indignant as he says, “no. Of course not. I’m just. . .Nevermind. Your parents seem cool.”

_ Your parents seem cool?! Real smooth, Enjolras. _

“Did you actually need to use the bathroom?” Grantaire asks. 

He reaches around Enjolras as he speaks. Enjolras frowns, awkwardly putting an arm around him.

“Uh. The door is behind you. I was just trying to open it.” Grantaire says, clearing his throat and stepping back.

Enjolras extricates himself from whatever half-hug he’d started, resisting the urge to bang his head against the bathroom door. “Sorry. No, I don’t, I just wanted to ask about—”

God, he couldn’t even remember. “No, we can go back.” 

He briskly walks back to the table, tripping over a chair leg before falling back into his seat.

* * *

 

Grantaire’s trying to figure out of this is going terribly or brilliantly. It could go either way, at this point—the most unnerving thing of all is he’s never seen Enjolras even remotely close to this happy.

He’s laughing.

Grantaire doesn’t realize he’s staring until his father comments on it, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and rolling his eyes. 

“I’m just so happy Rene’s found someone,” his mother is saying as he snaps back to reality, tearing his gaze away from Enjolras. 

“ _ Mom,”  _ he says.

“He’s always so happy when he talks about you, you know,” she continues.

“Oh?” Enjolras says, casting a look towards Grantaire that makes him want to slide off his chair under the table and never come out again. 

“I mean. I don’t talk about him that much,” Grantaire mumbles, trying to salvage this somehow.

Enjolras is bright red, and the blue of his eyes is almost piercing. But for some reason, he’s still smiling. 

Grantaire can’t for the life of him figure out why.

* * *

 

Enjolras has stopped paying attention to the conversation because they’re on the couch in the living room now, having finished dinner, and Grantaire’s curled up beside him, head on his shoulder, and Enjolras has to remind himself to breathe and remember that  _ all of this is pretend. _

It’s easy to forget, when Grantaire’s parents seem to already know so much about him, and when Grantaire wraps an arm around Enjolras (this time, he wasn’t reaching for the door), pulling him close, and he feels like this is the only place he belongs. 

They’re watching a movie now, but all Enjolras can think about is how ethereal Grantaire’s features look as the blue light plays across them, and there’s a stray curl that’s fallen over his eyes that Enjolras wants to reach up and brush away, and—

“Is there a reason you’re staring at me?”  

Enjolras shrugs. “No reason. Zoned out.” And then, without thinking, he reaches up to brush the lock of hair from Grantaire’s face. 

‘Taire’s eyes widen, and Enjolras pulls his hand back. “Sorry, it was just—”

There’s a bemused look on R’s mom’s face, and Enjolras turns bright red, looking down. 

The movie continues to play. It’s not very good, something about some boys on a baseball team, but it was what had been playing when they’d turned on the TV.

“Rene, it’s getting late, maybe you should take Enjolras home?” his father says as the credits begin to roll. 

Grantaire blinks—he’s nearly fallen asleep on Enjolras’s shoulder. ”Uh. Yeah,” he says, sitting up. He takes Enjolras’s hand, walking with him to the door. “Thanks again for this,” he whispers, and Enjolras can only register how he’s so close he can feel his breath on his ear. 

“Anytime,” Enjolras replies almost automatically, without realizing the implications of that reply.

Grantaire smiles as he walks outside, to the end of the walkway. “I’ll get an Uber,” he says, taking out his phone. 

Enjolras watches him type, looking away as soon as he looks back up. 

“But seriously, Enj, thank you,” Grantaire says again. He’s leaned closer, and one hand has reached up to cup Enjolras’s cheek.

Breathing has suddenly become very difficult.

“Hm?” is all Enjolras can manage to say before Grantaire kisses him. 

As he leans in, eyes about to close, Enjolras can see the house behind him.

“Your parents aren’t there anymore,” he says against Grantaire’s lips, though he doesn’t pull away. They didn’t have to keep up the act, did they? Why was he doing this?

Grantaire smiles at him when they finally break apart. “I know.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
